Be Here Now
by Ryder85
Summary: Of course, he was not a doctor, but he had spent enough nights in the hospital as a child, and then later Enterprise's sickbay, under "observation" to have learnt a few things about concussions." Trip gets himself into a situation. Rated for language and


A/N: I'm sorry it's so short. I've got pages and pages of ideas for this story, and its difficult to make them all fit. Needless to say, it's mostly about Trip. Please let me know what you think.

Also, if anyone is waiting for my Lost story, it's coming. I've hit a kind of road block, but just give me a little bit longer. Thanks for you patience!

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'Well, shit. Cap'n's not gonna like this one bit...'

It was ironic to Trip Tucker that upon regaining consciousness after an indeterminable amount of time, in unknown circumstances, that his first thoughts would be directed to what Captain Archer would think of the situation. Odd, considering that Trip didn't even know what Trip's situation was. After a suitable amount of time had been spent pondering the opinion of his less-Captain-more-older-brother, his second thoughts were centred on the steak knife that was sticking out of his forehead. At least, it certainly felt that there was some kind of sharp, stabbing instrument being slowly driven through the middle of his skull. It was a feeling not unlike a hangover, but at thirty one years old, it was reasonable to assume he had outgrown the binge drinking phase. Of course, it was out of character even for him to get himself drunk enough to be sick while serving on the flagship of Starfleet. Especially when there was so much riding on this mission.

He rolled over onto his back, blinking excessively in a vain attempt to clear his vision. He was lying on some kind of dry, greyish stone, as dense and hard as cement if the crick in his neck and the vague pain in his joints were any indication. The room he was in appeared to be a cell of some kind; the walls and ceiling were the same colour and consistency as the floor underneath him. The only apparent entrance into the cell was a metal door that had been installed in the opposite wall, approximately as high as the doors on Enterprise but nearly a foot wider. There was a tiny window cut into the medal, about three quarters up its height, barely large enough for a pair of human eyes to peer through.

For a long minute, Trip simply laid there, taking stock of and categorizing all his little and big aches and pains, according to location and severity. The worst was without argument his head. He reached up slowly with his right hand, half-expecting to encounter the cold metal handle of some kind of stabbing implement. When all he could feel was a warm stickiness, and his fingers came away red with blood, he was surprised only by the obvious lack of brain matter, which seemed wrong to him given the pain involved. Head wounds bled out of proportion, he knew. A lot of blood didn't necessarily mean a deep, dangerous gash. But when blood was accompanied by blurred vision, and a general fuzziness about the mind...Trip did not like the conclusion he was led to. Of course, he was not a doctor, but he had spent enough nights in the hospital as a child, and then later Enterprise's sickbay, under "observation" to have learnt a few things about concussions. Doctor Phlox liked to explain injuries almost as much as he liked to explain his somewhat unorthodox though highly effective treatments.

Trip grimaced as he carefully worked his joints to ensure it was only stiffness causing the ache, and not something worse. His limbs moved with a heavy hesitation, as though he had been tranquilized and was not really out of it yet. Of course, it could only be a side effect of the concussion...Without Dr. Phlox, it was impossible to be sure. He stood slowly, gracelessly, stumbling and nearly falling twice before managing to stay on his swaying feet. He was still wearing a uniform, which he was glad to see, even if it smelled a little rank and had definitely seen better days. He checked the many pockets quickly, but obviously whoever had locked him up had frisked him quickly for anything of use. His communicator was gone, as was his tri-corder, and phase pistol. Not really a surprise, but a disappointment nonetheless. His thoughts followed the natural path to his reason for being here. He wasn't sure if it was the apparent drugs, or the concussion, that was hampering his mind, but short term memory was alluding him, like a dream that vanished but for traces upon waking. He could remember being called up to the Captain's ready room, after a prank war in engineering had gotten a little out of hand. 'What can I say?' he had told Captain Archer. 'Us engineers need constant mental stimulation. Without it, we go crazy.' It had been difficult to explain how Ensign Rostov had gotten tarred and feathered, but lucky for Trip and department, Archer had grown up around engineers, and for the most part understood their thought processes. Instead of punishment, he suggested running an entire ship diagnostic, to assure him that every system was working at optimum efficiency. Then, the Captain had told Trip that if he hurried, he could catch up with Lieutenant Reed and be part of a survey team beaming down to the M-Class planet they were in orbit above. Of course, Trip hadn't heard the rest of the sentence, as the door had closed on the Captain's words. He had made it down to the transporter in time, and more due for his tendency to go stir-crazy rather than an aptitude for surverying, had been included in the team. Now, however, he was beginning to regret it. Trip remembered Reed laughingly tell him to stay out of trouble, even as they had materialized on the planet's rocky surface. T'Pol had detected some interesting minerals coming from the surface, and the survey team's job had been to briefly explore the honeycombing tunnels and caves that were hidden just belowground. They had entered the caves with reckless abandon when compared to previous precautions. Besides, there was no need to expect what sensors hadn't picked up, right? Trip had broken off from the group, following some interesting sensor readings despite Malcolm's warnings to stay close. He remembered getting farther and farther away, chuckling at the protectiveness he heard in the Lieutenant's voice, and then...nothing. That's were his memory ended. Presumabley, when he had been drugged, or knocked out, or whatever it was that whoever had done to him.

He sighed quietly, then decided that as long as he could find a way out, it didn't really matter how he had gotten in. He stepped forward to the door, and ran his hands about the seams, searching for an obvious weakness, maybe a subtle gust of air that indicated a fault in the installation. When he came up with nothing, he peered out the tiny window, but was met with nothing but the same, featureless grey rock. He frowned, wondering what had happened to Malcolm and the rest of the team. It was logial to assume that Malcolm wouldn't have gotten himself into a similar situation, and Trip was assuredly going to hear about it when he saw him again. _If _he saw him again.

He dismissed that thought from his mind as quickly as it had entered. He didn't know what was going on yet, and it was ridiculous to assume he wouldn't find a way out. He thought back to his academy training. The instructors had spent a sizable portion of time on what to do if ever taken captive, emphasizing its importance at least twice every class. At the time, Trip and most of his classmates had approached the lectures with a sort of detached curiosity. Sure, in theory, it would be a good idea to know all that stuff, but none of them were ever gonna have to use it. They were twenty one, of course, and invincible. Now, though, Trip was wishing fervently that he had paid more attention to the instructor, and less to Pam Macey, his current girlfriend at the time. He did remember, though, the lesson that diplomatically talking their way out of captivity was preferable to any alternatives. Find out what it is your captors want, and give it to them, if you can. Do not, under any circumstances, give them any sensitive, or vital information about any aspect of Starfleet and your involvement with the organization. So Trip would try talking, but his plan was hinging on having someone to listen.

He walked up to the door again, and banged on the metal surface with the heel of his hand. "Hello? Is there anybody out there? I don't know why I'm here! Could someone come and explain the situation to me?" He continued valiantly and politely for several minutes, but it soon became clear that either his captors didn't speak English, and therefore didn't know what the hell he was saying, or nobody cared. Regardless of the reason, he soon lost patience. "Why the hell am I here?" He banged against the door again, and followed it directly with a kick. "Where the fuck is everyone? Malcolm! Ensign Holley! Crewman Valez! Where the fuck is my team!" After repeated assaults on the door, he sank back against the opposite wall after one final kick, chest heaving from the exhertion. He was alone, in the truest sense of the word. His greatest fear in life was suddenly realized, in painful living colour. He pressed his hands against his temples, fighting to get control of his breathing. It wouldn't do himself or anyone else any good to lose it; a panic attack was certainly not a good idea in any situation, let alone one as harrowing as this.

As if in delayed response to his outburst, a sound filtered in from the hallway outside. Muffled footsteps, like heavy rubber soled boots, or a pair of slippers even. A shadow fell across the door's tiny window, and Trip stood, hands falling away from his face, panic suddenly forgotten. The door was opened, pulled outwards into the hallway (not recessed then; made escape that much easier). A figure stepped into the doorway. It was tall, at least a foot taller than Trip himself, but other than that, he couldn't decipher much. It was shrouded in thick, heavy dark green robes that pooled on the floor around its feet. Trip searched what should've been its face, but could make out no features, other than a glowing red spot where a human's nose would be. All in all, it was very intimidating, and didn't make Trip feel any better.

"Who-" His voice cracked embarrassingly. He cleared his throat, and made a second attempt to sound more like the representative of Starfleet that he was. "Who are you?"

"Who we are is not at issue, Charles Tucker." The creature spoke in a booming bass, a tone that seemed to echo around the tiny cell and infuse itself right into Trip's brain. He frowned slightly.

"Well, now you have the advantage over me. You clearly know who I am, and you still haven't given me a name."

"Who we are is not at issue,"the creature repeated, and took a step closer to Trip. Trip answered by taking two steps away, but soon ran out of room when his back hit the cell wall. "We are not who is important here. You are." The creature pulled a small device out of the many folds of its robes, held it lightly in its long fingered grasp. It appeared to be nothing more than a simple PADD, about the size of Trip's hand with a number of clearly alien letters flashing across its surface.

"What's that?"Trip asked, at the same time as the creature pressed down on the PADD with a thumb.

There was a sudden white hot flashing of pain behind Trip's eyes, then all conscious thought was stolen as he crumpled bonelessly to the ground.


End file.
